A Plan
by Alydia Rackham
Summary: Molly Hooper hasn't been installed at St. Bart's for more than three days before a mysterious black sedan pulls up to the ambulance station and she's forced to get in. Apparently, the Keeper of Her Majesty's Broom Cupboard has a brother—whose condition has become a security risk. Sherlolly origin story. Tie-in with Final Problem (Rating for mentions of drug use)
1. Chapter 1

Molly Hooper hasn't been installed at St. Bart's for more than three days before a mysterious black sedan pulls up to the ambulance station and she's forced to get in. Apparently, the Keeper of Her Majesty's Broom Cupboard has a brother—whose condition has become a security risk. Sherlolly origin story.

Note: I make a mention of a bit of Jane Eyre somewhere in this story. See if you can spot it.

For Becky and Malyna

"A Plan"

Ten Years Ago

ONE

Molly Hooper sat in the back of a black sedan, squeezing her fingers together, her heart pounding like a rabbit's. Thinking back on it, she had no idea how she'd gotten in the car in the first place—she'd just been walking up to the doors of St. Bart's when the gleaming vehicle had pulled up, a young woman with dark hair and placid face had stepped out, and requested, pointedly, that Molly get in or there would be dire consequences.

And all at once, Molly had found herself inside, behind the driver, speeding through the London streets, sitting next to that same young woman who just silently sat there, texting on her flip phone. Molly swallowed hard. Her mouth was dry.

She was going to be killed. She knew it. Didn't she have any brains at all? Everybody knew you weren't supposed to get into cars with strangers…

Finally, they drew up in front of a grand, red-brick, stoic old house somewhat near Buckingham Palace. The driver got out and opened the door for Molly. She just sat there, frozen, staring up at him.

"Go on," the woman urged from behind her. "He's waiting for you inside."

"Who?" Molly tried. But the woman didn't answer. So Molly braced herself—though she felt sick to her stomach—and climbed out.

The house loomed over her. Dark windows, stern façade, large pillars like bars guarding the entrance. Still wringing her hands together, Molly crept up the front walk, feeling the driver watching her. She ascended the steps, glanced back…

The driver stood there by the car, hands behind his back. He didn't move.

Molly faced the front door of the house, lifted her hand…hesitated…

And knocked three times.

She waited for a beat, her pulse accelerating. She glanced backward again, wondering if the driver would chase her if she turned and bolted—

The latch _clacked._ The door squeaked open. A serious woman in black, with a formal white cap and apron, eyed Molly.

"Good morning," she said flatly.

"Hullo, I'm…" Molly stopped, her mind reeling. "I'm actually…Not quite sure what I'm doing here." She smiled weakly. The housekeeper stepped aside.

"You're expected, Miss," she said. "Please come in."

Molly tried to pull in a breath, tried not to trip over the threshold, and came inside.

A vast entryway greeted her: a wide Persian rug on the floor, tall mahogany-paneled walls, elegantly-framed portraits of stern ancestors, vases and sculptures sitting on carven pillars. It smelled like books, and furniture polish. She paused in the center of the rug, gaping at the palatial ceiling.

"Thank you, Martha, that will be all."

Molly jumped at the sound of the cool, regulated male voice. The next moment, a tall gentleman in a black suit and red waistcoat, with neatly combed dark hair, hook-like nose and small, piercing eyes emerged. The chain on his pocket watch glittered. He stopped in front of her, glanced her up and down, then smiled—though the expression made her blood go cold.

"You must be wondering what on earth you're doing here," he remarked. He raised his eyebrows. "Forgive me for interrupting your work day, but I have some urgent business that needs attending, and you are precisely the person suited to the task."

"Erm…Sorry…Who are you?" Molly took half a step forward, trying not to wince. The man lifted his chin.

"My name is Mycroft Holmes. I occupy a small position in Her Majesty's government. But my particulars are really none of your concern at the moment." He leveled a strangely direct look at her. "I have a patient for you."

"What?" Molly laughed helplessly. "I'm…No, I'm—"

"You are Doctor Molly Hooper, twenty-seven years old, recently graduated from medical school," Mr. Holmes interrupted. "Top of your class, praised by all your professors, newly appointed to a position performing post-mortems at Saint Bartholomew's Hospital—in fact you started work there just three days ago. You live in London alone in a small flat you keep incredibly neat and organized, as you should, and you are never tardy for any meeting you agree to attend, nor have you ever been late to work or lecture in your life." Mr. Holmes arched an eyebrow. "Judging by the fact that you are wearing five year old shoes, jeans and a ridiculously-patterned sweater, you care little for fashion or style, especially since you are fully aware of the fact that you will be covering the whole of your attire in a lab coat on a daily basis. Tying your hair back in a ponytail as it is now is merely a practical decision on your part, in an effort to keep your hair out of your face as you work, for you are doubtlessly unaware of the girlishness it brings to your already youthful features and that it will inevitably hinder your male colleagues from granting you the proper respect." He looked at her plainly. "Does that about sum it up?"

All the heat had drained out of Molly's face. She clamped her hands together so hard it hurt.

"What do you want?" she asked through her teeth, her voice low.

Mr. Holmes' expression flickered, and he drew in a breath.

"Not to frighten you," he said—his voice softening. "I need your help."

Molly blinked.

"With what?"

"I have a brother—a singularly-difficult brother named Sherlock," Mr. Holmes sighed. "Ever since he was a teenager, he has been prone to the abuse of various extremely addictive and destructive narcotics. He has a brilliant mind, but unfortunately he seeks to enhance its speed by the use of these pollutants, and at this point he has driven himself to the brink of death." Mr. Holmes paused. "I intervened just in time. I have him here in the ground floor bedroom. He is being administered saline and various other nutrients and sedatives via IV, and is resting quietly. I have been watching over him personally all day yesterday and last night. But…" Mr. Holmes stepped toward her. "My presence is required at a critical meeting with several international ambassadors, and I need you to remain with him today, and through the night until I return tomorrow morning. You will of course be paid handsomely for your time, and for your discretion."

"My discretion," Molly repeated.

"Indeed," Mr. Holmes said frankly. "He is my brother. Which is why you find him here at my home recovering, rather than in hospital. He is aware of a great many details concerning myself and my duty to the kingdom. He also has penetrating knowledge of various other machinations behind this government and others. I prefer to keep him out of any potential harm, and away from…" Mrs. Holmes' expression darkened. "Prying eyes and eavesdropping ears."

"Why me?" Molly wondered, her head still spinning.

"Because almost nobody talks to you or pays attention to you," Mr. Holmes answered. "And I doubt they shall in the future. And you must admit that a new post-mortem pathologist is the very last person anyone would suspect of doctoring a living drug addict."

Molly stared at him, her lips parted, but couldn't think of anything to say.

"Don't worry about your employment situation, either. It's quite secure," Mr. Holmes mentioned. "I've made all the arrangements. You may return to work tomorrow afternoon."

Molly still couldn't speak.

"Come," Mr. Holmes motioned to her. "I'll show him to you."

He turned, and without looking back, led the way off to the left down a corridor. Still stunned, her face burning, Molly had to force her legs to work as she shuffled after him.

She passed several more intimidating portraits—they seemed to glare at her garish sweater—until she reached Mr. Holmes at the end of the hall. He glanced back at her, and lifted a finger to his lips. Molly bit the inside of her cheek. Mr. Holmes worked the knob, and pushed on the door. It swung open silently. He stepped inside. Molly followed.

The room stood mostly dark, except for the light from the tall window to her right, filtering in through sheer white curtains. Mr. Holmes turned to the left, slid his hands into his pockets, and frowned down at the twin-sized bed before him.

A young man lay on it—the bed tilted him to a slightly-upright position. A tall, lean young man, with curly brown hair and a narrow, carven face, heavy brow, cultured nose and unique, soft mouth. Even in this light, Molly could see his color was poor—an ashen tone to his cheeks, dark circles around his closed eyes. He wore a hospital gown, and warm beige blankets covered him up to his chest. His bare right arm lay atop the covers, pierced and bandaged with the IV tube…and marked with far too many circular bruises. Two monitors stood on the other side of the bed, hooked up to wires that snaked beneath his gown.

Molly's gaze lingered on his face…

And she stopped breathing.

His face. Utterly still, and asleep.

Somehow…

She felt as if she'd seen him before. But she knew she hadn't. It made no sense. It was like someone at the other end of a long tunnel had suddenly whispered her name.

"This is he," Mr. Holmes breathed. Then, he turned to her. "I of course cannot force you to take this assignment, Miss Hooper. But I would indeed be eternally grateful if you did."

Molly kept studying him.

He looked very bad. Probably several organs were on the brink of failure. He needed professional attention—but it was clear that his brother had no intention of taking him to hospital. And without a doctor, he could die.

Molly pulled her attention from the man on the bed, and looked to Mr. Holmes. Watched him for a moment, searching those keen eyes. Finally, she nodded.

"I will," she murmured.

"Very good," Mr. Holmes muttered, reaching over and picking up a chair from the corner, and setting it next to the bed. "There is a button right down here—a red button." He pointed to a box on the floor with a glowing button on it. "If you need to briefly leave the room, or require refreshment, Martha can be summoned thusly."

Molly just nodded again. Mr. Holmes pulled out his pocket watch and opened it.

"I will return by nine a.m. tomorrow morning," he stated. He looked up at her…

And something changed slightly in his features.

"Take care of him," he said quietly.

"I will," Molly said again. He paused for another moment, turned and left the room, closing the door behind him…

Leaving Molly alone with the beeping monitors, and a nearly-dead young stranger named Sherlock Holmes.

 _To be continued…_

 _Please review so I know you like!_


	2. Chapter 2

_Ah! I'm so happy you're interested in this premise! Thanks for the response! Enjoy!_

 _MHMHMH_

TWO

Molly sat in the chair, glancing across the monitors for the hundredth time. Everything looked normal. Well, as normal as it could look when someone had just overdosed himself on heroin. She sighed, leaning back, letting her head fall to the side so she could stare out the window. She couldn't see much—just the edges of a rose garden.

In a few minutes, the sky darkened and it started to rain, heavily. The drops pattered against the glass. Molly watched the few branches she could see out there weave and dip in the storm.

"Who are you?"

Her head came around.

He was looking at her.

He had very pale eyes—almost grey—and they flashed like lightning through the dimness. He frowned fiercely, that heavy brow darkening. His voice—hoarse, deep and rumbling.

"I'm…" Molly stammered. "I'm Molly Hooper."

"Molly Hooper," he repeated, narrowing his eyes. Then he squeezed them shut and sniffed sharply, shaking his head. "Are you sure you're actually here, Molly Hooper? I've been hallucinating all kinds of people lately, I might just reach out and swat you—make sure you're not a piece of the air…"

"Yes, I'm here," she answered. He canted his head and glared at her.

"How would you know?" he countered, low and deadly. "Isn't that just what a hallucination would say?"

Molly snorted.

"You're right, I wouldn't know."

"Oh, you don't _have_ hallucinations," Sherlock Holmes rolled his eyes. "Nice for you, lucky for you. They're quite bothersome—very distracting. Though I doubt a new pathologist performing post mortems at St. Bart's would have enough of an imagination to conjure up any sort of interesting phantasm, even with stimulating drugs—probably just rows and rows of shiny tools, or skeletons trotting about clattering their teeth—maybe you could summon something mildly interesting involving bone saws or buckets of formaldehyde…"

"Wait—how did you…" Molly stammered, her face heating up again. He looked at her, obviously trying to focus.

"Know you were a new pathologist at St. Bart's? Well, you could hardly be an _old_ pathologist, could you—look at how young you are," he stated. "With your hair style and sweater, you look even younger, almost fifteen or sixteen. But your eyes have it, your eyes give you away—you've seen dead people laid out on slabs, lots of them, and they don't frighten you. You understand them as what they are, you work to understand them as they _were_. Which brings me to your hands."

"My hands?" she murmured.

"Yes, specifically your right hand," he said, holding out his own. Molly hesitated, then lowered her fingers down to touch his long hand.

He caught hers up—firmly, but not roughly—and expertly found the muscles at the base of her thumb.

"See, these muscles here, and here," he said, squeezing them slightly.

She winced.

"They're sore. And this one as well." He moved his grip, and pressed his finger and thumb together on either side, pinching the center of her hand. He turned her hand over and then frankly threaded his fingers through hers and tightened. "You have strong but delicate hands, used to strong and delicate work." He heaved a sigh. "You probably should have been a surgeon, but when your father died of cancer you lost all confidence in yourself and frankly in the healing power of medicine. You had already made it into the medical program, however, so you shifted your course of study to post mortems, believing that if you couldn't help the living, you could at least help the dead and their families receive answers and closure—closure you'd been denied and shan't ever find, regardless of how long you search for it. In spite of this, however, you _keep_ searching, ignoring all advances from _serious_ men who attempt to flirt with you, which ensures that you'll remain unmarried for at least five to ten years if not for the rest of your life; and the solitary and grim nature of your work—though you have a healthy and practical view of death—will continue to isolate you from family and most friends so that, into your thirties and beyond, you will most likely be persistently alone."

Molly stared at him, her face burning—and her eyes stinging.

She would have torn herself away and bolted out of the room, straight out of the house…

But he still held onto her hand. As if he'd forgotten about it.

His was warm, and soft—and she could feel his pulse against her fingertips.

A somewhat unsteady pulse. And at the feel of it, she remembered her promise to Mycroft Holmes.

"How did you know about my dad?" she gasped, forcing her voice to stay low so it wouldn't shake. "How did you know that…?"

He looked directly back at her.

"The eyes have it, Molly Hooper…" he replied quietly. He frowned again. "…my incredibly-realistic pathology hallucination."

The edge of her mouth twitched up, in spite of herself.

"I'm not a hallucination," she muttered.

"You can't prove that," he answered flatly.

"What, so…Everything has to be proven?" Molly wondered.

"Of course it does," he countered. "If it can't be proven, it doesn't exist."

Molly rolled her eyes, shaking her head.

"Tell me, do you help people shop for coffins?" Sherlock asked. She gave him a half-hearted glare.

"I'm not a mortician."

"But you could," he pressed, flashing his eyebrows.

"Why, are you in the market?" she wondered.

"Oh, I'm sure my brother's already picked one out for me," he said darkly. "I'd rather have you do it, though—you seem well-informed, practical."

Molly took a breath, trying to re-gather herself.

"I'm not particularly fond of coffin shopping."

"Not your favorite pastime."

"No."

"Hm. Well, there goes that idea for an evening out tonight."

Molly tried not to chuckle.

"Well, what are _you_ , then?" she asked. "Besides…a smackhead."

He swallowed, and endeavored to focus on her again.

"I'm a detective."

"What?" Molly laughed, caught off guard.

"It's true, I'm a consulting detective," he insisted.

"What's that?"

"When people have been failed by Scotland Yard, they come to me, and I take up their cases," he said swiftly. "I investigate, I hunt, I experiment until I find the solution and or the culprit, and return to my clients with my conclusions, providing them with—"

"Answers and closure?" Molly finished quietly. Sherlock blinked, then blinked again. The skin around his eyes tightened.

"Something like that." He glanced off, then let out a groan and pressed his head back into his pillow. " _Ugh_ , what I wouldn't give for a cigarette."

Molly snorted again.

"Yah, that's what you need right now," she said under her breath.

"I'm quite serious," he said, closing his eyes.

"Me too," she answered.

He suddenly shifted, grimacing, his hand tightening around hers. Molly sat up.

"Are you in pain?"

"No, I'm…I just…" He closed his eyes. "I just feel like there's…There's something crawling all over my skin." He took deep, short breaths, searching the blank ceiling. "I need…I need something to…" He swallowed.

"Here, let me get you more sedative," Molly offered, starting to get up.

He clamped down on her hand.

"No! No, no, don't," he almost shouted. "It fills my whole head with fog, I feel like I'm…Like I'm dragging my whole body through the mud, or drowning. No," He forced in deeper, longer breaths, his voice hoarse. "I'd rather hallucinate you than the hundreds of other awful and pointless things that come up at me out of that stupefying haze."

"Okay…" Molly slowly sat back down. Sherlock's breathing shivered, his jaw tightening. She started to say something, thought better of it, her mind flying…

"Tell me…" she ventured. "Tell me about some of your cases."

"Why?" he demanded tensely.

"To distract you," she said.

He frowned sharply at her, blinked again. Cleared his throat.

"All right, erm…" His mouth tightened. He shifted again. "Recently, erm…Inspector Lestrade, at Scotland Yard, came to me with a case that completely baffled him—which isn't entirely surprising, considering the complete ineptitude of almost everyone working in the investigative department, but I digress. It seems he'd found a woman dead in a sauna with no marks upon her body, and no indication of suffocation."

"What did she die from?" Molly asked.

"Hypothermia."

 _"What?"_

"Indeed, yes, fascinating," Sherlock said impatiently. "Upon further investigation, I discovered that the coagulation of her blood didn't match that of a heat-stroke victim, so I immediately suspected foul play…"

Molly listened.

Case after case, he rattled off to her, almost as if reciting memorized speeches. Each one more incredible and baffling than the next—each problem penetrated by his decisive and scalpel-like mind; seeing things that no one else glimpsed, elevating details that others overlooked, leaping to conclusions that, once explained, seemed perfectly obvious.

She had never met anyone like him. And she knew she never would again.

A priceless, vibrant, gloriously-unique gem of a mind. Like a flashing star in the black of night. By his own offhanded admittance, Sherlock Holmes clearly didn't believe in a God…

But hearing him, watching his every movement as he spoke…

Molly realized, with a quiet, growing assurance, that there had to be one. This incredible, beautiful gift could not have been formed and given by accident.

Hours clicked by as tale after tale rolled over her. She listened with silent awe to his deep, precise voice, never looking away from him. Feeling his pulse beat against her fingertips.

Finally, his voice weakened, and when he blinked, he blinked slowly.

"I'm…I'm tired now," he finally concluded. "I think I'll nod off. Goodnight, Hallucination Molly Hooper."

Molly smiled crookedly.

"I'm not a hallucination," she whispered. But his eyes had drifted shut, and she knew he'd fallen asleep.

 _To be continued…_

 _Review if you're enjoying! :)_


	3. Chapter 3

_Still so happy you're enjoying this!_

MHMHMH

THREE

Molly, her eyes closed, frowned. Her whole back ached—she sat curled up in the chair, her head leaning sideways against the back of it. Earlier in the evening, she'd pushed the button and asked Martha to bring some supper for her while Sherlock slept. It had been a delicious meal of steak, potatoes and a little wine, which had made her sleepy, so she'd cautiously drawn her hand out of Sherlock's limp one and tried to make herself as comfortable as she could. She'd slept a while, but now she felt a sharp pain in her back.

Then—a sound.

Some noise, some needling, splitting buzz…

She grunted, lifting her head, squeezing one eye shut.

And then her eyes flew open.

She knew that sound.

The monitor.

The heart monitor—flatlining.

She sprang out of the chair, her clear gaze flashing to the machines.

Sherlock's heart had stopped.

Molly lunged toward the door and slapped the wall, searching for a light switch—found it. Flipped it.

Two bedside lamps came on. Dim.

Good enough.

She grabbed Sherlock's wrist, squeezing it, feeling for a pulse. Nothing. She reached up and pressed her fingers to his throat. Again, nothing.

She looked at the monitor. He wasn't fibrillating—just a straight flatline.

She grabbed the lever and flattened the bed with a jerk, laying him down—shoved the blankets out of the way, placed her hands right over his heart, took a brisk breath, and _pumped_.

"One, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight," she counted through her teeth, all the way to thirty—feeling her swift motions flex through his ribcage.

Then, she moved her hands to his head—put her left hand on his cold forehead, and tilted his chin up with her right. She bent her face close to his face and shut her eyes, waiting to feel his breath on her cheek.

Nothing.

She lifted up, pinched his nose, drew in a preparatory breath, bent and pressed her lips over his.

Then, she breathed down into him, watching his chest out of the corner of her eye.

His chest rose.

She took another breath, then breathed into him again—carefully.

It rose again.

She lifted up once more, placed her hands on his chest, and pumped again, vigorously.

"Come on, Sherlock," she whispered, counting in her head. "Come. On. Come. On."

Thirty.

She tilted his head back again, pressed her cheek close…

Still nothing.

Pinched his nose, put her mouth to his and _breathed_ once.

Watched.

Breathed again.

Pumped, pumped, pumped…

"Sherlock, please…" she gasped, counting, counting. "Please, please…"

He thrashed.

A gasp tore through him—he sat up.

Molly sprang back—his hands flailed—Molly grabbed them, fighting to keep him from tearing out his IV.

"Sherlock, Sherlock—are you okay?" she demanded. "Breathe for me, please. Sit still and just breathe."

He panted violently, clamping down on her wrists—he looked up at her wildly, but she wasn't sure if he saw her.

And all of a sudden, tears welled up in his eyes and tumbled down his cheeks.

"I…I have to go outside, I have to find him," he gasped, his whole body shuddering. "He's drowning, my friend is drowning—she said so. She's drowning him. My friend…" He swallowed convulsively, shaking his head as if to clear it, his brow twisting. He shakily pulled one hand loose from Molly and pressed it to his chest. "My…Why—it hurts! Why does my chest hurt—Did my heart stop? Did it stop, it feels like it…Like it stopped…"

"Yes, Sherlock," Molly nodded breathlessly, leaning sideways against the bed, keeping tight hold of his left hand. "Yes, your heart stopped. But it's okay now, it's…It's okay."

"No, you don't understand, it's not okay," he insisted roughly, fumbling for her hand, her arm, and grabbing her upper arm. Staring at her, but haunted by something else entirely. "He's out there, in the rain, he's drowning. We have to find him. Please…" His brow twisted further, his tears streaming down. "Please help me, help me look, he's out in the rain and she's drowned him."

"Sherlock," Molly whispered, reaching up and wrapping a hand firmly around behind his neck. _"No one_ is drowning. Listen. Nobody."

He blinked, gasping, and suddenly focused hard on her face, his lip trembling.

"You're in London, at your brother's house," Molly stated. "Your brother Mycroft. You've been unwell and you're resting here. Everything is okay. Everything's fine. Nobody's drowning. You're…You were having a bad dream."

"A bad dream," he repeated.

"Yes," Molly said. "Just a bad dream."

The skin around his eyes tightened again—a reflex of pained confusion.

"But…my heart stopped."

She nodded.

"Yes, it did."

"How did it start again?"

She gentled her grip on his neck.

"I did. I started it."

His lips parted. He stared at her as if he'd never seen her.

"I thought you were a mortician."

"I'm not a mortician," she murmured, smiling brokenly. "And…I'm not a hallucination."

His expression relaxed. He gazed at her—open and quiet.

"Molly Hooper," he said, as if for the first time.

She watched him, holding onto him—and holding his gaze, until his breathing calmed.

His mouth tightened again, and he stiffly eased back onto the pillow. He blinked, and fresh tears trailed down his temples. Sherlock let out a deep, groaning sigh, and his right hand fished for hers. She found it and grasped it. His fingers shook badly. She squeezed.

She didn't let go, even as she bent forward and discovered a short refrigerator under the bed that held various medications, which she then inserted into his IV tube—medications his heart and circulatory system would need after such a trauma.

After that was done, all the rest of the night long, she just sat and held onto him, listening and counting every single breath he took.

It was only after he'd fallen asleep again that she realized she'd been crying too.

 _To be continued…_

 _Review to let me know what you think!_


	4. Chapter 4

_And now for a twist…_

 _Hope you like those._

 _MHMHMHMH_

FOUR

Dawn finally seeped through the windows. Molly's whole frame ached. She'd never been so tired in all her life—not even after pulling that all night study session at end of last term. Methodically, she rubbed her thumb back and forth, back and forth across Sherlock's hand, watching his chest rise and fall…rise and fall…one, two…one, two…in, out…in, out…

A tap at the door. She dully lifted her head. The door opened, and Martha rolled a trolley in, bearing breakfast.

"Thank you," Molly rasped. She sat up, and scooted the trolley closer to her. And she managed to eat all her breakfast with only her left hand.

She drained the last bit of tea from her cup and pushed the trolley out of the way, her gaze falling on Sherlock's pallid face again. She swallowed, a deep pain in her throat.

"Don't ever do that to me again," she whispered, inexplicably feeling tears prick her eyes. "Promise me. Promise me you won't."

Sherlock just kept breathing. One, two…one, two…in, out…in, out…

At long last, the door opened again. And the lean, imposing figure of Mycroft Holmes loomed in the frame.

He motioned to her.

"Come," he whispered.

She hesitated. Glanced at Sherlock again—then down at his hand.

"Come," Mycroft repeated. "I'll take over for you in a moment."

Molly swallowed, staying still—as if an invisible cord somewhere behind her left ribs were fastened to Sherlock's—and if she made a movement to truly _leave_ him, it would snap, and she'd start to bleed inwardly.

Mycroft waited.

Molly slowly rose up, gripping Sherlock's hand, almost wishing he would wake up so she could see those eyes again…

But he didn't. Just kept breathing. So she slowly drew her hand out of his, and clutched her own together, and stepped out of the room, past his brother.

Mycroft softly closed the door behind her, and turned to face her. Again, he looked her up and down. Then, he directed an honest, serious—somewhat weary—look at her.

"Well done."

She frowned at him, sensing something else in his tone.

"Thank you..."

"Indeed, I should be thanking _you_ ," Mycroft nodded. "You have a cool head, a quick intuition—and a very capable working knowledge of modern resuscitation techniques."

Molly stared at him. He put his hands in his pockets.

"I never left," he confessed. "I watched you, all afternoon and night. Cameras in the corners."

Her whole body turned to ice.

"What," Molly choked. "Why? Why would you do that?"

"To find out if you possess the very characteristics I just mentioned," Mycroft replied, as if that were obvious.

Molly felt like her throat was closing.

"You didn't…You didn't _plan_ his cardiac arrest did you…You didn't—"

"Heavens, no," Mycroft said quickly. "And I had someone standing by in case you…In case you weren't up to whatever challenge you might face. But I'm happy he wasn't needed."

"Is that…Is that what _you_ do, then?" Molly hissed. "Play games, tricks, on people?"

Mycroft scowled.

"It's not a trick," he stated. "It's a plan."

Molly eyed him sideways, feeling as if the ground was tipping.

"What kind of plan?"

Mycroft let out a sigh.

"A plan to save my brother from himself. _And…_ " he lifted his eyebrows. "A chance for you to help the living, rather than the dead."

Molly stood silent. Mycroft went on.

"Molly Hooper, I must ask you to do something tremendous for me. A favor I do not ask lightly."

"What?" Molly asked shortly, her voice low.

"My brother gets a definite high from solving crimes," Mycroft said. "I am doing my best to steer him in that direction, and away from the addictive poisons he keeps trying to pump into his system. In that vein, I would like you to be available to him. Anything he needs, I want you to help him with it. Together, you and I can keep him on that much more constructive path, lest he kill himself with this foolishness."

"But…what could he need from me?" Molly whispered.

Mycroft shrugged.

"Access to St. Bart's laboratories, its morgue—your expertise. I would of course make certain that you come to no trouble, ever, for helping him with whatever he asks—that your job remains secure regardless of the outcomes of his cases, and that you are protected from any reprisals that may threaten from those he attempts to catch or incarcerate. You'll be granted access to all details of the cases of course, and I will give you my private number, to be called in any instance you deem necessary."

Molly was finding it hard to breathe.

"You can really do all that?"

Mycroft smiled, a little slyly.

"All that and a great deal more, Doctor Hooper."

"So…that's all you wanted, then," Molly said slowly, gauging her words. "Just…access to the lab."

"No, of course not," Mycroft scoffed. "I could have made a phone call and done that, without troubling you with any of this." He gestured to the door behind him. "What I want you to do for Sherlock is something that, despite our best efforts, my family and I have been unable to provide him with for nearly his entire life."

"What's that?" Molly asked quietly. Mycroft looked frankly at her.

"Something he won't ever find any ordinary way because he maintains the façade that he is heartless—a calculating machine. Besides which, he's generally insufferable and almost literally beats off every potential friendship with a hot poker." Mycroft paused. "He needs someone to care for him. Simple and plain, and unfortunately—utterly selfless."

Molly's heart and breath caught.

"Selfless, because he will not give you anything in return," Mycroft warned. "Not ever. But does need it. Quite desperately. And you'll have to keep reminding yourself of that, deep down inside you—and no matter what he says—if you hope to maintain your course."

"Then why…" Molly whispered unsteadily. "Why would it matter?"

"Because now he trusts you," Mycroft stated. "I doubt he'll remember many details from this little adventure—but he will remember _you_. Inherently. Without being able to explain it to anyone else, or even himself." Mycroft's voice lowered. "But believe me, he'll never forget it. Not as long as he lives. If ever his own life is at risk—he will instinctively look to you."

Molly took a shaking breath, her fingers trembling.

"I, erm…" she tried, ducking her head and smiling weakly. "I'm not sure what to say."

"Tell me you'll think on my little proposal," Mycroft proposed. "You have a clear, direct, uncluttered mind, Doctor Hooper. Something both Sherlock and I value, and somewhat envy, though we rarely admit it." Mycroft studied her for a moment. "But from what I've seen, I do think you'll be inclined to take me up on it. You have, according to my mother's rather sentimental definition, 'a tender heart.'"

Molly, her head still lowered, just nodded.

"One more thing, however," Mycroft took a step closer, an edge entering his voice. "You must promise me never to speak to him of yesterday or last night—not a word of what he said to you, or what you said to him."

Molly looked up at him, startled.

"Why?"

Mycroft's mouth hardened.

"It's better for some demons to remain buried. At least for a little while longer."

Molly didn't dare press him. She only nodded again.

Mycroft reached into his breast pocket and pulled out a card. He held it out to her.

"Here is my private number. Text me when you've made up your mind."

Molly stared at it, then reached out and took it from him. Then, she turned and started away down the hall.

"He does need you, Miss Hooper," Mycroft called quietly. "I would not have taken such extreme measures had I not reached the end of my resources. You are, in truth, my last hope."

Molly stopped. Stared down at the card she held in both hands. Gritted her teeth, and took a short breath. She turned around, and looked at him.

"I'll help you."

Mycroft's shoulders relaxed. And the ghost of a real smile crossed his face.

"Then put that number in your phone," he instructed. "At the top of your contact list."

Molly didn't answer. Mycroft watched her a moment longer, then turned and re-entered Sherlock's room. Molly waited until it shut, then turned back around and found her way back out the front door…

Where that same black sedan waited to take her back to St. Bart's, as if nothing had ever happened.

 _To be continued one more chapter…_

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	5. Chapter 5

_Last chapter! Thank you to all of you who have reviewed—I hope you enjoy this last installment._

 _MHMHMH_

FIVE

 _Present day_

Molly cautiously climbed the stairs to the second level of 221B, studying the strange, burnt smell that pervaded the space. She achieved the landing and hovered just outside the threshold, peering inside.

The windows had been replaced, the furniture set aright, but burn marks still scorched the floor and walls. And Sherlock stood partially turned away from her in the center of the room, a handful of blown-out books in his hands. He wore a black dress shirt and trousers, and his shoes were covered in soot.

Molly's heart banged hard against her breastbone, pain shooting through her ribs all the way down to her fingers. It wasn't too late—she could still turn and run…

He suddenly turned around. Saw her.

His lips parted.

"Molly."

She forced a brief smile onto her face, and ventured a couple steps closer, over the threshold, clutching her purse to her side.

"Looks…a bit rough," she managed, gesturing stiffly to the room.

"Ah! Yes, well…" Sherlock cleared his throat, glancing around. "That's what a bomb does, I suppose." He stood for a moment, staring down at the ruined books in his hands, his mouth tight.

That pain came back to Molly's chest, and she couldn't maintain her smile.

"What did you want?" she asked. His head came up, and he glanced at her briefly before swallowing.

"I, erm…I wanted to tell you what…Well, all of this," he waved to the room. "And the…The phone…thing."

"You don't have to," Molly said. He came around and frowned at her.

"What?"

"Mycroft called me," she managed. "Told me you have some…wicked sister or something that…caught you all and trapped you in a maze and made you do horrible things." The edge of her mouth twitched as she looked at him. "She made you think she was going to kill me if you didn't get me to say…You know. So…You got me to say it."

Sherlock just stood there—looking as if he wasn't breathing. His eyes fixed on her. His mouth opened again.

"Molly—"

"It's okay," she cut him off, sniffing. "It's okay, I…I know. Thanks for trying to protect me. It's…nice of you."

"No," he stated.

She stopped.

"What?"

"No, that's not…I mean, yes, it was," he corrected, shutting his eyes and shaking his head briefly. "Yes, it _was_ to protect you, but…" He stopped, gazing at her again. Open, earnest—and terrifying.

"What?" she whispered.

"I remembered something," he said—his voice low, careful.

"Remembered what?"

"I remembered it when I said it—don't know why," he said, gesturing with one hand. "But when I said to John, beside the ambulance, I said 'It's not a trick, it's a plan'…and I remembered something. Mycroft had said those words before, a long time ago. Right outside my door. When he thought I was asleep."

Molly's eyes went wide. And suddenly she couldn't speak. Sherlock's gaze pinned her to the floor.

"It didn't come back all at once, just in pieces, over the next few weeks after the Culverton Smith case. I suppose that shouldn't surprise me, considering the drug-induced stupor I'd been in when it initially happened," Sherlock explained. "But then I…When we walked into that room in Sherrinford, and in the center of it, up on stands, was a coffin….Practical. Unsentimental. A coffin built…for you. As if you had…shopped for it." Sherlock held out his left hand, as if he were resting it on the coffin's face. And he didn't look away from her eyes.

"And I remembered," he whispered. "I remembered all of it."

"All of what?" Molly breathed.

Sherlock's eyebrows drew together. He turned his hand over, and held it out to her.

Shivering, Molly stepped forward, inches at a time. She freed her right hand from her purse strap, and dared to stretch it out toward him.

He caught it. And with gentle, expert touch, he found two muscles in the base of her thumb. There, and there—he squeezed them.

It hurt. She winced.

And she put her free hand over her mouth, tears dripping down her face.

He held onto her. She felt a tremor in his own hand. He pulled on her.

She obeyed, coming closer, her throat closing. His hand enveloped hers, and then he pressed her palm against his breastbone.

The quiet, mighty _thud_ of his heart vibrated through her whole arm. And she felt it through her entire frame when he took a breath.

"Don't ever leave me, Molly Hooper."

A sob cut loose from her, and more tears fell. Her head came up.

She looked up at him, right there—gazing back down at her, grey eyes bright as the sky.

And she kissed him.

She leaned up, caught his collar in her free hand and pulled him to her, capturing his mouth with hers.

He let go of her hand…

And reached up to cradle her head. And in breathless, sudden stillness…

He kissed her back.

She didn't know how long they stood, mouths locked together, hearts thundering, but without breathing.

And then, slowly, Sherlock's chest unlocked, and he drew in a deep breath.

The same instant, Molly did the same.

Their lips gentled. Broke apart, just slightly.

She opened her eyes. He was already looking at her.

And, just for an instant, he smiled.

Then—suddenly, he blinked, and looked past her. His expression ironed out to one of flat disapproval.

"John," he stated.

Molly's face flooded with heat. She spun around…

To see John Watson standing there with a suitcase in his hand, looking as if he'd just walked in to see an alien sitting in Sherlock's chair.

"Hullo," he said cautiously, glancing at the two of them. Then, he stepped inside, tilting is head. "Ahem. I…saw that coming, by the way," he muttered.

"Saw what coming?" Sherlock demanded.

"That. You. You two," John answered pointing at them.

"You did not," Sherlock scoffed. "Not a month ago you were demanding that I phone Irene Adler."

"I was not," John bit out, striding past them toward the sitting area.

"Irene Adler…" Molly repeated, her head still spinning and her lips burning—but to her surprise, Sherlock reached down and casually took hold of her hand.

"John, how could you possibly lie to me about—I was sitting in that very chair." Sherlock pointed to the poor battered green thing.

"I was…Yeah, okay, I wasn't thinking entirely clearly that day," John held up a hand, then set down his bag. "But I've known since…Well, you know. The phone call…thing."

Sherlock rolled his eyes and huffed.

" _Aaaah."_

Everyone spun and stared at the mantel—where a strange, breathy utterance had issued from Sherlock's phone.

John jabbed a finger at it and glared at Sherlock.

"What— _What_ is that, then?" he demanded.

"Ugh, yes, it's _her,_ all right?" Sherlock let go of Molly and traipsed to the mantel.

"Why is she still texting you?" John wanted to know.

"Because I haven't even _looked_ at her texts for the past two weeks," Sherlock muttered, swiping his phone off the mantel and coming back to Molly. "It's more than mildly irritating. Make her go away." He handed it to Molly.

"What?" She caught the phone, looking up at him in shock.

"Tell her something to make her stop," Sherlock said, crossing the room to the scorched couch and sitting down in it.

"Sherlock, why are you making Molly do this?" John wanted to know, beginning to look angry. Sherlock returned his look, very solemnly.

"So that she knows exactly what message was sent," Sherlock replied evenly. "So she will trust me."

Molly's mouth opened. Sherlock looked from John, to her. He raised his eyebrows.

"Go ahead."

"All right, fine. I…Yeah, I ought to just stay out of it," John muttered, throwing his hands up and entering the kitchen. "Is there a _single_ clean teacup in this flat?"

"Try the top right hand cupboard," Sherlock called. John opened it. Heaved a sigh.

"I'm not tall enough to reach that, Sherlock, and you know it."

Sherlock smirked. Molly tried not to smile.

"I, erm…" She lifted the phone. "I don't know the pass code."

"0327," he answered. She started to type it…

Paused.

"That's my birthday."

"Yes," he said deliberately, watching her. Her face got hot again. She typed it.

Irene Adler's text popped up.

 _I've accepted the fact that you don't answer me half as often as I text you—but this not even *looking* thing…I think I like it. Yet another level of intimacy I've yet to explore._

Molly ground her teeth.

"She texts very well for…someone who's dead," Molly remarked, that heat traveling down her throat.

"Yes, well—not so dead, after all. Text her back, pretend it's me," Sherlock instructed. Molly frowned at him.

"What, just…Go away, leave me alone?"

"No, of course not," Sherlock waved it off. "That won't do a thing—she'll keep at it, worse than ever. Tell her something—whatever you think a woman would need to hear to stop texting a man."

"A normal woman…texting a…normal man?" Molly looked at him sideways.

Sherlock stopped…

And gave her a low, gentle smirk.

"Jokes, Molly."

"Right," she whispered.

"Sherlock...You _moron_ …who puts teacups up here…?" John grunted, standing on a pile of books and straining to reach.

"Text her," Sherlock urged.

So Molly took a breath, and started typing. Sherlock sat back in the couch, frowning down at the few books in his hands, flipping through the charred pages.

Molly finished.

"Want me to read it out?"

"No, send it," Sherlock sighed casually, scanning a very burnt page. Molly watched him for a moment, then took a breath and sent the message.

"All right then, what was it?" Sherlock asked. "What did you say?"

Molly looked down at the message, and read it aloud.

"'Sorry, I can't text you anymore. I'm engaged to be married.'"

 _CRASH._

Molly jumped in the air and spun around.

John's teacup lay shattered on the counter. John stared, wide-eyed, over his outstretched arm at her, then down at the smithereens of glass.

And Sherlock started to laugh.

Bewildered, Molly looked over at him—

He covered his eyes with his hand and kept giggling, shaking his head.

"Right, _soooo_ funny," John barked, climbing down off his makeshift stool, glass jingling all around him. He stomped toward Sherlock. "Now I've broken another— _another_ —one of Mrs. Hudson's antique teacups, and Molly is texting Irene Adler pretending to be you who's pretending to be engaged."

Sherlock continued laughing, shrugging as he did, and gestured to Molly.

" _What?_ I think it's brilliant."

"Which part?" John demanded. "The teacup thing, the Irene thing or the _engaged_ thing?"

"The teacup thing, of course."

" _Sherlock."_

"Okay, all of it," Sherlock admitted heartily, swiping tears from his eyes. "Especially the engaged thing."

Molly's heart skipped a beat.

John went still.

"Wait, what do you mean? You're serious?"

"Of course I am," Sherlock dropped his hand and gazed at Molly, a hidden smile in the corners of his eyes. "She's already promised not ever to leave me—isn't that essentially what marriage is? It would be an extreme inconvenience, otherwise."

"I…Yes, I suppose so…" John said, baffled. "That's not…really much of a proposal, though."

"Right, ahem," Sherlock cleared his throat. "Molly," he stated, leaning forward and folding his hands. "In the interest of national security and for the sake of law and order in England…Will. You. Marry. Me."

Molly swallowed. John gaped. Sherlock waited.

"That's it?" John cut in. "You're not…You're not teasing her, are you? Because if you are, Sherlock, I'll—"

"No, I'm quite serious," Sherlock said—never looking away from Molly.

"Ha!" John exclaimed. "Unbelievable. Yeah, a ruddy romantic, you are."

"John," Sherlock said flatly. "Did you propose to your wife while I was in the room?"

"I was in fact _trying_ to—" John needled him.

"Yes, well—"

"Fine, fine," John huffed, storming toward the door. "Mrs. Hudson! I've broken another teacup…" He thundered down the stairs to Mrs. Hudson's apartment, leaving Molly standing in front of Sherlock. His features softened.

"Come here," he beckoned. She came nearer, around the coffee table, and he shifted so she would sit down next to him. She set the darkened phone down in front of him on the table, and then settled onto the couch—and he adjusted so his side pressed against hers. Slowly, cautiously, he reached down and took up her right hand, and felt those same muscles in her thumb again and again, watching the progress of his fingers.

"Mycroft was right. As usual," he muttered. "He's infuriating."

Molly almost smiled, memorizing the feel of his touch.

His hand stilled, smoothed out—and interlaced with hers. Held on. And went still.

"Well…I'm not going anywhere," he said softly—very carefully. "Are you?"

Molly took a trembling breath, and shook her head.

"No."

He let out a low, quiet sigh.

"That settles it, then," Sherlock murmured.

" _Aaah._ " The phone lit up. Sherlock reached out, and tapped in the code.

Irene's text opened.

 _Congratulations._

And that was all.

Sherlock clicked the screen off. Glanced up thoughtfully.

"I think Mycroft should be in charge of the flowers. And perhaps the cake."

Molly chuckled—it burst out of her—and she turned and pressed her face into Sherlock's shoulder. She felt his smile beam through her.

"Look, whatever happens, Sherlock," John declared, stomping back up the stairs. "If you make me your best man, I'll not be doing all those stupid speeches."

Sherlock's head came up.

"What? Whyever not? You made _me_ do it."

"Yeah, and look how that turned out," John muttered, crossing the parlor carrying a broom.

"If I ask you, you have to do it—it's just the way it is."

"No, it's not the way it is," John countered, starting to sweep. "And you're not printing my middle name on _anything._ "

"Molly likes your middle name."

"No, she doesn't—nobody likes it."

"I like it."

"No, you think it's _funny_."

"That's the same thing."

"No, it isn't!"

And as the two dearest men she knew kept arguing, Molly just grinned into Sherlock's sleeve, reveling in the warmth of his hand, and listening for his powerful heartbeat.

THE END

 _Review!_

 _You guys should check out my original Victorian mystery series called "The Mute of Pendywick Place"—I know you'll enjoy it._


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